Hurin Family drabbles
by sian22
Summary: How do a new Prince and his lady manage to raise three precocious children amidst resettlement of a long neglected land, diplomatic sorties and the occasional unexpected skirmish? As a team, of course, even if sometimes neither is quite sure who has the upper hand.
1. Chapter 1

This is the first in an occasional series of drabbles about my favourite Fourth Age family. Tales will not necessarily be in chronological order but all will involve the Prince and Lady of Ihtilien and their children, as featured in 'A quiet drift of petals'.

Here, for the first, the events of Eowyn's 38th birthday morning. For Annafan, who also has a birthday in November.

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* * *

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"Remember, love, to act surprised."

Eowyn nods and smiles, sinks back down under the covers of their huge poster bed, stretching out her long legs to confiscate the warm space so hastily vacated by her husband.

 _Béma,_ it is too early. The air is chill, for the fire's coals have yet to be stoked, and Faramir, he of the laughing mist grey eyes and ruefully shaking head, has had no chance to put on a log, whispered this sage advice mere minutes after a hurried, barefooted investigation of the muted thud that echoed from down the hall.

Éowyn-the target of the dawn patrol- had held her breath and cocked an ear, hoping none of her precious little monsters had hurt themselves, but no wail rose up. Just a very faint but hurried call: " _We're fine, Ada!_ "

'Bron. That was 'Bron, speaking in his best official reassuring voice, having picked up both the package and his little brother, Theomund. Neither seems to have taken much hurt (according to Faramir's intelligence), and so the little parade continues on, slowly, haltingly, making their way to her lap.

 _Why could none of them take after her?_ The Lady of Emyn Arnen is quite famous for her ability to sleep. Anywhere. Anytime. Ten hours if she can get it, although that in practicality, rarely happens. It has been her husband's habit of many years to bring her tea and a kiss (and sometimes more) as a wake-up call for she can ignore the crowing of the cock and the sounds of the estate going about its day.

She says she is making up for her years of watchfulness. He says she is dreaming up new schemes to drag the folk, grumbling and protesting, into a new and burgeoning Age.

(He may be right. Their own printing press, for botanicals and herbals, the odd announcement and even a history or two, is still setting tongues awag.)

Outside, the excited whispering is getting louder. However did the children manage this by themselves?, she wonders. The sun has yet to break over Ephel Duath's snow-dusted slopes and Gwinlith, their cheerfully early cook, has yet to rouse from her bed. Who stirred the kitchen fire? Who dragged bowls and plates down from their too-high shelves? Not Theo. His head barely reaches the scrubbed, battered tabletop. Elboron might oversee the fire but that leaves Finduilas, slender and willowy like her namesake, to climb the shelves and reach the crockery. _Valar._ She did not want to think about it. At least Faramir has a watchful eye on them now.

After several more minutes lazy half-dozing, Éowyn finds she cannot not fall completely back to sleep, and so she pushes up, pulls back the bed curtains and reaches for her housecoat to ward against the room's lingering chill. Slipping out of her sanctuary to add a log to the softly glowing coals is unappealing. Also entirely unfair. Faramir, born in balmy spring when the first flowers are in bloom, gets his birthday breakfast on the terrace-out-of-doors and followed by a long rambling hike around the farthest reaches of the estate. Eomer, golden and sun-kissed, has his in _Urui, e_ xactly nine months from the end of fighting season. Like many a child in the Riddermark, he is the gift of a joyous reunion after the Riders set aside their patrols. Not Éowyn. She was born in _Mede_ , the month of wet and cold, sharp north winds and biting frost before the snows of Yule. A sign of ill luck to some, but not Eomund of Aldburg. He had been delighted.

"A mark of _Bema's_ favour, 'Wyn. Makes you strong and hardy from the start."

This brings a wistful smile. Her memories of her father are mostly hazy but the prickle of his neat blond beard against her chin as she blessed him with a birthday kiss was there. As were the expertly feigned sleepy welcome words. "Gód ærmorgen, goldblóma." _Golden bloom_. So she had been for all their years together. That name, and the tradition of little ones treating _byrðre_ and _cénréd_ to breakfast in bed, had begun nearly forty years before.

It was a treat to continue with it now.

She pulls the soft velvet robe about her shoulders and sits straighter up. The sound of a commotion is clearly just outside their door.

"Careful Fin. Hold that steady!"

"I am!"

"No you're not. The tray is tilting. Give it to me."

"Bugger off 'Bron. It's fine!"

There is a gasp. It is all Éowyn can do to not snort out loud at her daughter's righteous indignation.

Elboron, superior as only an eight-year-old can be, is two years older than Finduilas, who likewise will brook none of his direction. They bicker constantly. Chalk and cheese are more alike than her eldest offspring; they happily descend into shoving matches at least once a sennight; events that habitually end with Elboron mucking out the entire stable and Finduilas confined to the study to mend the White Company's worn socks.

It is a toss-up who hates their punishment the more.

The one thing the two youngsters can agree on is the need to dote upon their little brother. Theomund, calm, sweet-natured, and very wise, is at times alarmingly a little more like twenty-two than two.

She waits for a longer moment, and, sure enough, a small cherubic voice pipes up.

" _Ada_ , Fin said a bad word."

"She did, didn't she, Theo?" comes Faramir's warm, deep tone. "Most disappointing, as I know she excels at more complicated grammar."

Eowyn grins, can almost hear her beloved's eyebrow raise and her daughter's shoulders droop. Finduilas is brave, headstrong and entirely too impulsive: no amount of admonition by _her_ stops the girl's more colourful expletives, but her adored father? All _he_ has to do is look sideways.

This time the apology is a little faint. "Sorry, Ada."

"Thank you Finduilas. Now, Elboron, why do you suppose your sister felt the need to swear?"

"'I don't know."

"Are you quite sure, Elboron?"

There is heavy silence and a half mumbled response. "Well.. yes. No.. I mean. I didn't mean to boss. I just wanted things to be right."

"Well. That is the right sentiment, but perhaps an over enthusiastic application, hmm?"

"Sorry, Fin."

"Good. Now, shall we open the door and start the surprise?"

"Yes!"

The excited chorus sounds from right outside the door. Quickly, Eowyn schools her features into sleepiness.

"Happy Birthday Mama!"

The door swings wide. Elboron stands there, shoulders back and head held high, proudly sporting an armload of presents while Finduilas grips the handles of the breakfast tray. Both of them are in their nightclothes. Faramir leans against the door, smiling above their heads, eyes glinting. No doubt he will regale her later with what mess he found.

Theomund, relieved of his burden, excitedly bounces forward, scrambling up onto the higher bed from the bench. "I stirred," he announces proudly.

"He did," nods Finduilas, ceremoniously setting the tray upon the coverlet and leaning to grace her with a kiss. "We made you breakfast all by ourselves before even Ada got up. And Gwin."

"You did? What a wonderful surprise!" Eowyn beams and gives her a quick hug.

Elboron sets a colourful pile at her elbow and gives her a quick peck on the cheek. "And we brought you presents! One from each of us."

Theo, frowning, slowly counts each bundle off on a chubby finger. "But there are only twee?"

The bed dips as Faramir grins, sits, and plants a warm hand on his small son's back. "That's all right Theo. I will give Mama hers after luncheon."

Something about the roguish glint in his eye suggests it might come when everyone had a 'nap'.

"What is it?" asks Finduilas, turning her dark head to look between them both.

Too smart by half, her daughter.

Éowyn does her best not to blush. "A secret, oh nosy one." Faramir reaches across to tickle Fin underneath her arm, and that, is that. All three children launch themselves onto his back, tangling in a pile as they vainly fight to reach the one spot they know will work: behind his ear. Faramir twists and turns, agilely dodging until Eowyn has to pull the tray up out of harm's way.

"Careful!" she cries, but none of them pay her any mind. Faramir is laughing, fending off each assault; tossing Elboron bodily (but carefully) onto the carpet and prying Finduilas' fingers from the collar of his shirt.

The excited shrieks and giggling last until he collapses flat onto the mattress with Theomund pinned onto his chest. "Yield! I yield. You mother needs peace to eat!"

All three chefs suddenly settle down. Elboron pulls Theo into his lap and Finduilas sits decorously cross-legged beside her father's feet. _Well well._ Instant acquiescence. It really is a special occasion.

Eowyn smiles. Now that they are all sitting still she can see a smear of berry-red on Theo's check and a streak of soot on Elboron's arm. How had they accomplished the feat entirely unsupervised? She eyes the tray a little warily. There is a barely coloured piece of 'toast'; a pot of her own current jelly and one of butter. Lukewarm rosehip tea fills her favourite cup, which is perched beside a much tinier flowered teapot. A bowl of something thick and covered in cream and honey sits in the middle pride of place.

She picks up the spoon and dips it in. Porridge. Still warm and stirrable. Obviously, freshly made. That is impressive and a little worrying: last year Gwinlith had helped them make scones the night before.

Faramir sits up and sets his shoulders back against the headboard, fingering the pattern on the little china pot. It is Finduilas's, from her nursery playset. Last time Éowyn looked it was filled with curdled milk.

"Don't wait 'Wyn," he drawls, dropping an arm onto her shoulders, all too aware of her sudden hesitation. "Aren't you going to try it?"

The urge to stick out her tongue is strong. "Yes, of course."

Two small blond heads and one dark quiver in excitement. She takes a mouthful and gingerly begins to chew. It tastes…odd. Clumpy and glue-like, with some sort of gritty bits swimming in the topping. Bravely she swallows the stuff down and takes another scoop.

The second is no better than the first.

 _Had the oats not been rinsed_? Eowyn wonders, laboriously grinding a sharp bit of husk between her teeth. _Vala_ r, it was truly terrible and like no porridge she had ever eaten. Coarser and rough, as if the oat flakes are twice the normal size.

A quick gulp of tea mercifully swishes the inedible residue down. She sets the teacup back and reslutely picks up the spoon.

It stills mid-air as she had an awful thought.

Oh _Bema_ , what if they expect her to down the entire bowl?

"Do you like it Mama? It has honey just like you like." Finduilas' heart-shaped face is anxious.

She smiles a little wanly. Oh yes it has honey. Half a jar, judging by the smear of translucent yellow that runs throughout the milk. Her daughter, like her father, is a notorious sweet tooth, but Faramir would normally wolf down breakfast before he tastes much of anything. Food is fuel to Ithilien's Prince. It just goes down more quickly when it is sweet.

"It is lovely thank you, darling," she lies boldly and unreservedly to the three pairs of eyes who follow her every move. They _have_ made an effort. And at least the jam should be edible. She reaches for a tranche of bread.

"Already cut," chirps Theomund, quite conscious that he is not to touch the kitchen knives. It was. Cut and stale, the day before yesterday's last piece and starting to dry out. Béma.

She looks askance at her husband.

"Haven't they done an amazing job?" he grins and digs his chilled toes below the blanket, blowing a kiss her way.

"Absolutely." Teasing rogue. He can tell how hard a time she is having choking the adorable and adorably awful fare down. _Well._ What's sauce for the goose….

She puts on her sweetest smile. "Here, my love. You simply _must_ taste it. You love porridge."

There is a brief spark of panic on Faramir's handsome face as she ceremoniously passes a new heaping spoon of sandy sludge across.

She was being a little mean. Her husband did _not_ , in point of fact, love the breakfast he had consumed every morning for nigh twenty years of Ranging. These days Faramir is most likely to scarf back a wedge of cold pie before the rest of the family arose—his endless appetite leads him to quite happily fend for himself, scrounging in the larder before Gwinlith shoo's him out. Makes what she terms a 'proper breakfast'. Eowyn almost groans at the thought. Fresh baked bread and preserves, bacon, smoked fish, cheeses and all manner of delicate pastries to go along with a hearty, creamy porridge.

On the bright side, if she can hardly force down the children's efforts she will still have space for more when they finally reach the breakfast room.

She flashes Faramir a sympathetic grin. "It is very sweet."

"Umm, yes. Just like these three." Faramir points the spoon at their eager audience. A small dollop of cream and grey plops on the whitework of their quilt. It is so stiff it does not spread beyond its landing spot.

Faramir is rather slow to pick it up.

 _'Stop stalling'_ she sends surreptitiously, biting her lip at the look on his puzzled face. ' _It might even put hair on Legolas's chest_ '

 _'That bad?'_

 _'Worse'_

Manfully he takes a bite. And chews. And coughs, sputtering as a chunk of something catches in his throat.

Elboron quickly crawls over and thumps his red-faced father heavily on the back. "Ada, did it go the wrong way down?"

 _'Something did. But it wasn't oats_!' comes Faramir's worried thought.

He grasps the boy's arm in gratitude and coughs again. "Yes. Thank you, lad, for your help. Perhaps I shall stick with tea."

He snares a water cup from the bedside and waits while Finduilas solemnly pours from the little teapot. Eowyn pulls apart the piece of bread and slathers on as much butter and jelly as she dares. Faramir, bless his kindly heart, essays the porridge again, chews very very carefully around something hard. He grimaces and turns away to spit into the spoon.

 _'What was it?'_

He shrugs.

' _Grit? Dried husk_?' she sends.

' _Mayhap. But nothing usually there_.'

He sets the spoon down upon the tray. This will take some investigation. And extremely careful questioning. It would not do to upset the proud participants.

By way of a distraction, Faramir throws his hands out wide. "My arms are empty!" he announces loudly and Finduilas and Theomund practically fly into his hug. They settle in under his chin and he drops a kiss to each tousled head.

Over by the window Éowyn has mercifully finished her piece of bread. "Bron," she asks gently, half afraid of the answer she will get, "how did you make the porridge?"

She has stirred the gloop some more. The oddly giant flakes are studded with dark brown and tawny bits.

"Just like Gwinlith does," he replied. "In the pot above the fireplace."

"I stirred!" adds Theo.

"I know you did, sweeting. How very clever of you."

"At the table," Elboron is quite to note, taking up his place by the foot of the bed. He bites his lip and casts a worried glance her way, rubbing his hand at his nape. Her heart pangs a little. Both Fin and 'Bron know to watch for Theo, are aware of his unsteadiness, but Elboron is also old enough to catch the drift of her questioning.

He looks dispiritedly at the bowl. "Two parts water, one part oats. Just as she said."

Éowyn tries to smile in reassurance. "Then I am certain it was not anything that you did. We shall have to tell Gwinlith to empty out the crock. There are bits of something not oats mixed in."

"Oh."

"But it is a lovely surprise regardless."

"Thank you Mama." 'Bron replies, but his response is purely automatic. He frowns, eyes briefly dark like smoke, thinking hard. Finally he says: "But we didn't get it from the crock."

Eowyn sits straight up. "Why ever not?"

"We couldn't get it down," explains Finduilas. She crawls out from the circle of her father's arms. "It was up too high."

 _Bema's_ blessed horn. That was something of a relief. The rascals didn't try to scale the pantry cupboard after all. But then, where ever did they get the cereal?

She eyes her eldest with a quickly sinking stomach. "'Bron? What then did you do?"

"We tidied," he says, a little defensively.

The boy has his uncle's colouring: wheat gold hair and ruddy, freckled skin. It flushes all too easily, as Eomer's was apt to he'd done something wrong.

"That was thoughtful, dear," she nods and beside her Faramir smiles approvingly, for even if tidiness is not his skill, he approves of passing it to his son. "But sweetheart, where did you get the oats?"

"From Wyndfola's feedbag!"

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Thanks to Eschiziola and Wheelrider for encouragement and comments!


	2. An Oath and a gift

"Do _I_ not get this dance?"

The Prince of Ithilien bows extravagantly low, one black eyebrow raised and mouth twitching in mock affront. He knows full well the answer before he speaks but is quite unable to resist.

The glow from Merethrond's many torches winks off the silver buttons of his tunic. Gleams on his lady's hair of molten gold. And shines on the faint drops of terror that dot his eldest's brow.

"No," Éowyn replies most firmly, turning and taking Elboron's outstretched hand. "It is my right to claim 'Bron's first turn about the floor and I am so proud to do so."

She curtseys and the newly sworn First Lieutenant Elboron bows stiffly and correctly, white gloved fingers holding tightly to her own as if they seek an anchor in a gale. He has, his father and Lord knows all too well, faced his first Orc skirmish with more equanimity; face set and pale, an expression of grim determination on boyish features that, beneath a shock of thick blond hair, look uncannily like both his great-grandfathers. _Ecthelion's eyes but Thengel's cheekbones_ , said Aragorn, afterward in the firelight, and Faramir does not doubt it. And Boromir's utter fearlessness. _(_ This last he keeps assiduously to himself, for though his wild Shieldmaiden is cut from almost the same cloth, she is a mother still.)

"Mother, can't we wait until the second dance?" asks 'Bron, biting uncertainly at his lip, surveying the couples thronging the marble sea. Faramir's heart thuds with a pang of sympathy. A first formal ball in Minas Tirith can be terrifying: intricate dances, a thousand watching eyes, a stage as wide as Emyn Arnen's entire riding ring. It is nothing like their easy and intimate dances held in the town meeting rooms. The whole court has turned out in their finest on this warm midsummer eve to fete the new young recruits. Nobles. Guards. Ambassadors and a Prince or two. Across the expanse of white the Queen graces her own eldest with a smile just as fond and wide. Eldarion, clad like his swordbrother in the black and silver of the King's Royal Guard, looks a little more composed. But only just.

"Whatever for darling? We practiced this very tune."

They had. Both young princes had had a turn about the rather more cramped palace dining room, table and chairs pushed back and fearsome little sisters locked out just in case. At this very moment, Faramir notes that both Finduilas and Eledwen stand remarkably docilely beside the commanding bulk of the King, enjoying second helpings of dessert. (Bribery sometimes works. Thank the _Valar_.)

"It is a little complicated," offers 'Bron, "and they will all be watching."

"Only because you look so handsome in your uniform!" replies Éowyn, flashing her best encouraging smile and picking up her hem. "Come!"

There is no escaping the moment now. Éowyn looks back once to catch her husband's eye and then sweeps them both onto the floor. Son and mother stand, hands clasped, ready to promenade as the opening bars of the music swell, two bright spots of gold amidst a fair of dark and raven hair, and suddenly Faramir is dizzy.

The light slides and swirls. The music fades away and he is gripped by a tide of waking dream so fierce the fine grey of his mother's eyes is swallowed by a dark more inky than a moonlit night.

 _They will all be watching._

It is not forward that he is thrown, but back.

* * *

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~~~000~~~

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Éowyn, puzzled and inclining her golden head, waits patiently for him to lead her into the next movement of the Thanksgiving Ball, but for a long moment he simply stands, heart full and wondering at his fortune. In all the small, oddly important, details, it transpires that being Steward is not so very different from being the Steward's son. He has not tripped upon Merethrond's wide stone steps. No councilor has taken (obvious) offense at his seat. He has not forgotten the names of pretty and pallid young things who vie for his attention. The tight ache of worry that blocked his chest is now just a memory, banished by the warm mellow candle light and bursts of happy laughter that rise up above the music.

And the smile upon his dancing partner's lovely face.

"Do you see?" Éowyn asks, a little breathless, two spots of colour high upon her cheeks as they take their place at the end of the long set. She reaches with her sword hand to pull the filmy gauze of her sleeve down across the shield arm's bindings and he finds himself watching it jealously for they have dropped hands again; the tingle of where her fingers pressed against his palm is fading, and more than anything he wants it back again.

He cranes his neck to watch the next couple promenading down. "Anborn and Kira?" Under the glow of the lieutenant's proud affection, the young woman shines as if she were Tar-Miriel herself.

"You approve?"

"I do," he nods. "For all his silver tongue, he is a most faithful heart. And they dance well together."

Éowyn looks at him askance. "You call that dancing? I call that slaughtering his dignity with his feet."

"Or more precisely slaughtering her toes. Unlike his captain."

As hoped, he is rewarded with a wry and sudden laugh. "Oh ho. You are quite sure of yourself, Lord Steward."

"In this, always yes!"

The tune ends and the makeshift orchestra strikes another up. _Valar_ bless Horgin the music master. It was _The_ _Goose Girl_ : a once most scandalous couple dance from Gelin comprised of 'scenes': a tableau of complicated to and fro as the 'maid' leaves her bedroom window open to allow a 'conversation' with her suitor. It is not a dance to do with just anyone. Or anyone you do not wish to better know.

Éowyn bites her lip, frowning at the crowd. The opening bars have begun and already couples are lining up. "I can't manage this. I have never seen it danced before. I don't know what to do!"

"Absolutely, you can, my lady. Have faith." and with that he places a warm hand against her side, whisks her into the twirling 'chase', relieved to find she has thrown her caution to the wind and truly let him lead. He guides her with just a push forward or pull back, fingers caressing the white satin of the sash about her waist and oh but this is a joy. How could not all the world be right with her light in his arms, clasped so close that the jasmine twined into her hair tickles at his nose?

They 'fight', and 'argue', and 'reconcile', finally coming to stand together, pledging their devotion before the One. Time stops and he finds they are poised, almost chest to chest. An island in the throng, but he sees nothing but the faint wash of blue deep within her steel grey eyes.

"They are all watching," Éowyn breathes, looking up anxiously, limbs trembling like a harpstring kissed by the wind. "I must be making a fool of myself."

"Never. They are all watching because you are more beautiful than anything they can imagine." She is and he is the luckiest man in the hall. Giddy with it, he bends to nestle a cheek against her hair.

""I feel like I could float out into the night," she sighs.

"Maybe it is the music." Or the heady scent of jasmine. Or the wild beating of his heart.

Her eyes shine bright like the coruscating, sparkling stars. Against their dappled veil streaks a trail brilliant as a meteor.

"Did you see it?"

"What?"

She cocks her head and he stands transfixed and wondering, a tide thrumming in his blood. He has been here. He knows it. Utterly. All at once.

"Faramir?"

His dark head shakes but the glow lingers still. The visions are never simple to scribe in words. They tumble out of his lips, dazed and slow, as if surfacing from the River's deep.

"When I…I was… last in Ithilien, I saw a star streaking across the night and in the day thereafter I found a patch of _niphredil_ near where it fell. A portent, I thought. A sign that for all the dark there might be coming light. But I never realized what it truly meant."

"Faramir?" She frowns, wondering but not afraid, puzzled; her small strong hand sliding up to hold his cheek.

 _Fire and snowdrops. Winter's rime and heated iron. Strands of bright-gold and raven hair twining in the breeze._

There will be darkness. And sweetness. And all the delicate, unnerving contradictions of a life.

And he is not afraid.

"Nothing, my love. Nothing." He clasps her wayward hand, turns it upward and in full view of all kisses the inside of her wrist. "Come let us catch a breath of air."

* * *

~~~000~~~  
.

'Faramir. Love. Come back to me."

He does, limp and for a moment disoriented, light and music flooding back with each calming stroke of Éowyn's fingers across his back. Before him, Aragorn stands with both hands lightly on his shoulders, poised to catch him should he fall.

"Sorry. I am sorry," he mumbles but Arwen shakes her head, steps forward to press a practical goblet of something strong into his hands.

"Here, _mellon_. Restore yourself."

He drinks most gratefully, lets the fruit-fire of the brandy sear him back to the here and now, pleased to find he needs no help to hold the cup. "How long have I been 'gone'?"

"Not long." Éowyn nestles herself against his side but the tune _has_ changed. Elboron is still out on the floor, now gallantly squiring a blushing Eledwen and Finduilas, thankfully, is oblivious, frowns in concentration in 'Dari's arms. She hates to be not perfect at every single thing. He runs a faintly trembling hand across his face, wondering, as ever, how she might take this most wayward of her father's 'gifts'. Bron at sixteen is past the age for it to come- Elphir was twelve and Imrahil a precocious ten when it first appeared. Theomund is yet too young, but Fin with her fine-boned Dol Amroth looks is the one he suspects might come to understand it.

And struggle. More than he did.

 _Valar_. He takes another, larger swig, willing it be some years yet. "I am well. I am."

"Are you certain?" Faramir nods, and satisfied his friend will not topple to the floor, Aragorn pulls back, firmly orders the merely curious to move on, gives them both some room.

Éowyn looks up, "Where did you go?"

"Back." He coughs as a little more brandy hits too hard. It is always so. His body slow and sluggish. Chilled as if standing too long on patrol. Or swimming in green water. The heat of Éowyn's body is welcome where it seeps through her gauzy gown.

Bless his wife. His gorgeous, wise, and wonderful wife. As unfazed by his visions as she is his trails of ink and quills and books. While he worries about gifts that might not be, and inheritance, and challenges yet to come, she is ever grounding to the here and now.

Perhaps he has been wrong. Borrowing trouble before the day, when all any of them can do is wait. There was a time when he accepted all that the world would bring.

"To where?" She squeezes lightly at his arm.

"To us. To our beginning. I think I needed to remember something."

Éowyn smiles. The few laugh lines only make her face more breathtaking. He sets a finger below her chin and tilts it up, catches soft lips in a most blistering and hungry kiss.

Before the world. Again.

She laughs delightedly and he speaks with all his heart. "How much of a gift you are."


	3. Chapter 3

Altariel and I were just chatting about how enjoyable Happy Faramir stories are to read and this drabble popped into my head. And because I am hopeless at writing short this chapter is 2K. Lol. Theomund's story can be found in Welcome to Rivendell. You do not need to have read it but just know that he has a neuromuscular disease that is progressively weakening his muscles, starting with his hands and feet, back and legs...  
.

* * *

It is the morning after the Midsummer party and Emyn Arnen's halls are hushed and quiet. Some heads still on pillows will be a little worse for wear, some are merely taking advantage of a rest day to lie in. The formal celebration in the village had been great fun, noisy and boisterous but graced by no breeze and blazing sun. The private evening party in the terrace garden had been rather more relaxed: tables and bright cloths set out across the lawn, armloads of peonies in vases, the family cooking for themselves.

Faramir and all his cousins, Eomer and Imrahil and Aragorn and Arwen, had sat late under a shimmering canopy of stars, passing flagons of Dol Amroth's best, finishing the cheeses and honeycakes and the first sweet strawberries from Eowyn's raised beds. True to form, Amrothos and Erchirion kept up a running, punning commentary. Eomer and Imrahil reminisced on Thengel's legacy. Arwen charmed shy Mareth. All was relaxed and easy, with no duties to attend and no troubles to intrude.

It was the twelfth time all had assembled on that eve. Some things had changed but some had not. Alphros, nearly seventeen and but a few inches shy of Elphir's height, had at last joined the adult table, speaking softly when directly spoken to and keeping his keen grey gaze on everyone. The younger children, by tradition, sat at a smaller table just in earshot, presided over by Alphros' younger sister Miriel. Once refueled with roast boar and greens and berry tart, they played hide and seek amidst the sprouting stalks of corn, scarfed every piece of chocolate from the sideboard, and ran and shrieked in the velvet air of early eve until they simply dropped, like fireflies winking out.

(Haran, Amrothos' wolfhound pup had snagged a chop and been made to give it up. Eomer's Rhaed, for some reason still a mystery, sported a green silk ribbon on his tail. Bror, his littermate, loping half crazed as he tried to round his little charges up, had finally flopped, tongue lolling, beside his master's feet.)

It was, quite possibly, the Prince of Ithilien's favourite night of the year. Also by tradition, he would catch Eowyn's eye and tilt his head, grin at her affectionate shake of head and procced to carry each sleeping little one to their beds, climbing into the hayloft to tuck the lucky in and tell a story. A dozen faces, bleary-eyed and fighting the pull of sleep, would snuggle into bedrolls and listen, rapt, while his soft baritone spoke of Elves and Ents, glittering caves and majestic halls. Then, to the sound of tree frogs droning and parents faintly laughing, they would drop off, one by one, with a hushed 'good night' and a gentle kiss upon the brow.

Magic. All of it.

Faramir would always sleep uncommonly well that night.

The next morning he rises in the minutes after dawn, tenderly kisses his wife's chilled shoulder and pulls the light sheet up across. Through their tall sash windows the first rays of sun are glinting low, setting little rainbows to dance across the floor but away to the west, the morning haze hangs like a silver ribbon above cool Anduin. It will be fine, although the east breeze that wafts a scent of jasmine says rain is on its way.

He shrugs into breeches and a light linen shirt, pads silently on bare feet, seeking out enough provision to hold his stomach until breakfast. Sadly, the strawberries for the moment are all gone (more will be picked by conscripted little fingers) but the scones are handy and the butter sweet. He scoops them up and a cup of the kahva gently steaming on the hearth, blessing Gwinlith their cook, who must be somewhere about, and heads for the one room he knows has no one bedded down.

His muscles ache.

It is becoming more of a challenge besting all the boys at wrestling.

Inside the study he sets the plate and cup upon the desk, sits back and flips the slim leather volume's pages to the ribbon marking where he last left off. The Haradi poetry is beautiful. Lush and effusive, as filled with contradiction as day and night upon the sands, slow going when read in the original but worth it, for he has yet to find a translation he truly loves. Faramir spends blissful minutes jotting notes, flipping back and forth between two versions, pausing here and there to sip the cooling kahva.

The scones have only just been reduced to crumbs when a flicker of movement catches his eye. Eldarion and Elboron, shirts creased from sleeping in their clothes, are walking past the north lawn doors with what looks to be the hayloft's wooden ladder underneath their arms.

How very odd? It is awfully early for the lads to be up-the sun's rays have just begun to slant farther across the carpet-but they must be already at some game. Another fort perhaps. Or raiding the hard, sour crabapples to fling as cannonade. The world, he thinks, has changed but not much in some fundamental ways.

(The boy he was had perfected the art of hitting his brother on parade from the Steward's garden wall.)

Presently, a small cavalcade of rumpled children trots by and at first he thinks naught of it, they are quite quiet for so large a pack and soon enough hunger will pull them inside for sustenance, but then he sets down his quill, places the ribbon carefully back and rises.

Mirith isn't with them. At fifteen, she is on the cusp of womanhood, growing tall and willowy like her mother, just old enough to sleep longer if not deliberately woken up.

His parent's sixth sense for mischief says ' _best to check things out_.'

Faramir turns the key in the door, slips out with mug in hand, puzzled when he does not see shining faces in the near orchard trees. Where had they got to? Farther east from the direction of Bron's tack and so he rounds the corner of the house, scans the shrubs and orderly herb beds to no avail. No sign of them at all. He is about to scout the kitchen when an excited whoop comes from to his right.

There, framed by the rose-covered trusses of the pergola, stand the great branches of their Mallorn tree. Festooned with children. His own Finduilas, Aragorn's Eledwen and Cele, Eomer's Aedre and Lin, are all waving excitedly to someone lower down. Little Elfwine and Erchirion's Galachir are grinning, safely perched between the two biggest girls. Amrothos' eldest Adradan is reaching down for Theo's thin hand that is reaching up.

 _Valar_!

There is no time to rouse some help. Theo's fingers and his hands are the weakest part of him—there is no way that he can hold his weight and so the mug falls abruptly to the grass. _Where are 'Bron and Dari?_ Faramir thinks, heart in mouth, sprinting around the obstacles, praying the boy can hang on long enough. Elboron _knows_ that Theo, for all he is tall at six, cannot climb trees, they have spoken of it. Elfwine and Galachir are stronger, steadier even though they are of an age, and Gal climbed ship's rigging before he could even run.

Theo is forbidden without adult help. For good reason. His muscles are weakening gradually over time and it is difficult for him to gauge his slowly changing skills.

He soon passes the second screen of green and the full glory of the Mallorn comes in view- it's silver bark, great verdant leaves. The tree has grown swiftly as the children and as his eye focuses on the trunk, the sight he finds makes him pull slowly up.

Theomund's feet rest quite safely on the ladder's upper rungs.

 _Nienna's Mercy._

His youngest's gold head has reached the top. Elboron is at his back, steadying Theo with one hand firmly gripped upon his belt and the other on a rung. Eldarion is bracing the ladder solidly from below.

"You can do it," cheers Eledwen and Finduilas claps excitedly as 'Dan, one hand on Theo's arm and another around a branch, pulls the slight boy across, sets him safely straddled on the largest straight side limb.

Theo is beaming. Brighter than Anor at her peak.

Faramir lets out a breath before he tries to speak. Startling them could lead to greater harm.

"What _are_ you doing?"

Eleven sets of greyish eyes whip round.

"Climbing," chirps Elfwine, waving from up above. The future Crown Prince of Rohan is quite oblivious to the firmness of his undertone but the older boys catch on. Two dark heads and one golden fair nod swiftly.

"Safely, sir," Adradan insists while Bron demonstrates, gaining a few more steps and stepping lightly over to the branch. 'Dan shimmies back and makes room for his bigger cousin.

"We've got the ladder and both 'Dan and I helped him up," his son explains, a smidge defensively, while Eldarion follows suit, tucks his black braid into his collar and takes the rungs two at a time before joining his best friend's perch. "I kept a hand upon him at each step."

Elboron sounds certain, utterly guileless, convinced the precautions were appropriate.

Faramir comes to rest at the ladder's foot. He tilts his head up to peer through the leaves, running a sweat dampened palm through his hair. Elfwine looks steady. Galachir perfectly at home. Aedre has always had a head for heights but Leylin, as naturally nurturing as the grandmother she is named for, probably just wants to keep her brother safe.

He is somewhat mollified by the sight but the first big branches for sitting on _are_ ten feet up. Theo could yet fall. The need to be closer in, to have one hand upon his boy's thin back is overwhelming. The fastest way would be to jump, haul up onto the branch but he does not wish to startle anyone.

"You didn't think to wait for help?" he asks, setting a foot upon the bottom rung to begin his climb. It feels sound. Perfectly balanced between the flat sod base and broad smooth trunk.

"No Ada, we were very safe. We also have a rope." Finduilas, who can scrabble as agilely as one of Khand's fabled monkeys, who (unlike her mother) has taken immediately to climbing down the hot spring's sheerest walls, draws his attention to a long coil snaked around the central trunk.

It dangles through the leaves before looping up at Theo's waist.

Bless their crazy hearts. A ladder and three sets of steady hands and a reasonable facsimile of a harness.

They must have really wanted Theo in the game.

"That was a sound decision." Faramir allows somewhat reluctantly, giving their thoughtfulness its due, but not exactly encouraging further exploits. A few more steps take him level with Theo and Adradan. He can touch his little boy. The sense of relief is beyond acute but now natural curiosity gets the better of him. "What is it that you are playing?"

Eledwen shakes her dark head and rests her mother's elegant fingers against the silver bark. "We are not playing Uncle, we are greeting the first of summer's suns. _Naneth_ says in the Greenwood they do it from a flett, before all else, to gain the blessings of the day."

"And we could not leave Theomund upon the ground unblessed." Cele's silver eyes are serious, her high child's voice solemnly certain for a moment. The object of their discussion sits, smiling proudly, athwart the branch, thin legs kicking idly back and forth.

Elboron grips harder on his little brother's belt, determined to keep him safe. "No he couldn't Ada."

Faramir has to swallow around a sudden lump blocking up his throat. Aragorn and Arwen have just returned from a visit to Legolas' home. The subject of the solstice was obviously discussed, and Theo's siblings and cousins and close-as-sibling friends would not dream of having him left out.

"That was very thoughtful of you all."

He glances east, toward the rising sun and a land that once was shrouded. Her mountain fence is free of its once foul denizens, covered now in wild thyme and avens. Blessed with beauty and renewed abundance. As the people are with a new generation of children growing up without Shadow.

Free. Unfettered. And with joy within their hearts.

He turns his face up to the canopy. "Is there any room for me?"


	4. Virtues lost and found

_For Hobbit Day- a little vignette of a hobbit and a Ranger-many years later under Emyn Arnen's bows._

* * *

 _1442 Fourth Age_

Samwise sat on a carpet of crisp, spent green and silver leaves, looked up into the stately Mallorn's branches and thought, for the second time that morning, it was almost time for second breakfast.

He had been lazing, legs crossed and back to the smooth silver-grey of the Mallorn's bark. The morning sun was bright and warm-it kissed the pale green of the tree's new leaves and gilded the edge of the small leather-bound sketch book. About the thick grey lawns, the first of spring's shy flowers bloomed. Lily of the valley and nodding hellebores. Sunstars and blue periwinkle.

Beautiful, as all of Emyn Arnen was. But also hungry making.

"Have I got it right, Samwise? Or do you need more sustenance to form a considered opinion?"

The dark head and lean limbs of Gondor's Steward sank to the turf beside him. Faramir was grinning, dressed for his morning's ride in breeches and short boots, cheeks red from the warm wind. Never let it be said that at least one Man in Arda could not read the heart of a Hobbit. Breakfast for the early rising Steward had been four hours ago.

Faramir pulled a pair of Gwinlith's scones wrapped in a cloth out of his tunic pocket and set them on the grass.

"Well now, I wouldn't say a bite's unwelcome, but…" Sam looked across to his friend's merry face and tapped the design on the open page, "this looks true. And using it as a guide, I will accept yours is that taller."

Faramir's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You agree!"

"I do," the hobbit allowed, "but," he splayed his fingers over the man's rough pencil sketch of Bag End's new Party Tree, "mine is broader. Better for building flets, I reckon. More true to Lorien."

Faramir tipped his head back and looked up himself. "Hmmm. You may have a point. And thus, Bag End wins again!" He sighed. "I shall have to up our game. Perhaps Éowyn can find some special tonic to encourage it."

Sam shook his grizzled head. Everything the White Lady touched grew well, but in the twenty years they had been carrying on this bet only once had Emyn Arnen's Mallorn won. Both had had a little of Galadriel's silver dust. Both were fine specimens. But he was of a mind that the Shire's soft air and gentle breezes lent the Party Tree more ease. "You may try, but I doubt there'd be much change. And what is my prize?" he asked, after finally reaching for a scone. It was plump and golden, studded with dried currents and exactly what his rumbling stomach wanted.

Faramir's mouth quirked. "Other than the scone?"

"Now….!"

The Steward chuckled and raised a hand. "Peace my friend. Of course there is a prize. And this year I cannot say I am sorrowed to lose for I have the best possible gift—an unlooked for surprise."

Sam sat straighter. A surprise? For many years the winnings of their competition had been little things—perfect shells from Belfalas Bay, red-gold, wind-carved stones from Sarakan, a worn Kine horn from Rhun. Wild treasures that Faramir found on his journeys in service of the King. What else could he have found?

Faramir quietly reached into the leather satchel that lay at his feet and drew out an oblong box, burnished dark and bound with silver clasps. "Do you remember what day this is?" he asked, clear eyes grave and bright.

Sam flushed. "March, I know, but I am afraid since Rosie and I have been holidaying, I've not paid mind, save the new year's turning is coming up."

Faramir nodded and set the gift upon the grass between them. "It is the 8th, old friend. The day you and Frodo parted from me in the wild, with all that we had to give of aid though our hearts wished we could do more. Food. And a very little wisdom. And staves." He turned the box to face Sam, sprung the latch. "Do you remember what I said of them?"

"Of course! They were magic'ed with a virtue. Of finding and returning."

"Yes," said Faramir quietly, "and we hoped that it would not wholly fail under the Shadow into which went you went. I have oft wondered about their fate since the Eagles brought you back, whether their charm had failed. Or proved too weak."

Sam shook his head, remembering a still and stagnant darkness, sounds fallen dead and Frodo seeming white and cold. "Mine was broke. Over Gollum's back, and a good duty that was or we'd never have reached even Gorgoroth. But Frodo's we had to leave. It's lost. There'd been no finding it amidst those paths."

"So I too thought," nodded Faramir, "but now I believe it kept its virtue still." He lifted the lid and pushed box close to Sam's knee.

The hobbit looked down in wonder. Inside, on a base of soft linen, lay a small round iron disk, marked with runes and scratched with use. Beside it lay a carved piece of Lebrethon worked in the shape of a great stag, horns back and forming a hand rest. The shoe of the stave and its head. He was almost speechless.

"How? Where?"

Faramir took up the ring and passed it to Sam's shaking hand. "Eldarion and Elboron found them just a month ago beside the new path that we drive through Ephel Duath. Work has begun again with spring. The folk of Nurn will have a route for trade and we an easier one for defense. Along the way they have found many pieces of ancient workmanship, not all foul, nor touched by shadowed hands. But these lay upon the dark of the tumbled stones, hidden to all but the sharpest eyes." He lifted the stag's head with care. The wood was split, warped from rain and snow but still whole. "They wished to be found," he went on. "Be reunited with their rightful owner."

"But Mister Frodo is not here," Sam said around a lump within his throat, thinking of a veil of silver of glass rolling back over Mithlond's sea-green waves. These must be Frodo's for his lay still in Shelob's horrid caverns. "They are not mine."

Faramir's hopeful smile softened and his eyes grew grave. ""No, but they are still a memory of our meeting on the way. Of the many chances that befell me in the War, finding a pair of hobbits in the wild is still my most treasured." His mouth quirked wryly. "Next to unburdening my heart to a shieldmaiden on the walls."

Sam had to laugh at that. "Well I daresay I know which is the fairer. Your lady is near golden as the Lady of the Wood."

"But most definitely of the morning not the twilight dappled glades. Won't you take them?" Faramir asked.

Sam rubbed the black wood thoughtfully, fingering unseeing eyes. "Mister Frodo said at the Havens my time may come. I…" He took a steadying breath. Thinking too far down the lane did no one well, the Gaffer'd said, but he'd never allowed for Elves. Or Dúnedain. Or heavy golden Rings. "Perhaps he had the right of it. When our lads and lasses have little ones of their own and my Rosie-girl is gone, I might take a journey of my own."

Faramir sighed softly. "May that day be long from now. And across the sundering Sea, you shall gift it once again and it will finally have returned. A virtue promised long in the keeping." He unfolded his long frame and stood, bowing gracefully, gesturing with one hand back toward the house. "And now, Master Samwise, as I expect a single scone to be insufficient to your needs, will you not join me in a second breakfast? Éowyn said there would be syrup and griddle cakes. And her own sausages if Théomund and Fin have not been entirely too greedy."

Sam snorted. As if any of Faramir's brood could be such a thing as unpolite. He took up the box, the ring and stag, set them in and turned the clasp. Cradling the precious thing in his arms he bowed very low.

Just as he had in cavern of dim torchlight and tinkling springs, shrewd eyes and blurted secrets-a whole lifetime ago.

"I would be honoured, good Captain. Lead on."

And Faramir did.


End file.
